Under a Slate Grey Sky
by Lirazel
Summary: When all you can remember is cold and weariness and fear, and you have no idea where you're going, all barriers seem insignificant. RHr oneshot.


Under a Slate Grey Sky

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It was cold.

The wind was shrieking down around the sides of the mountain and over the rocky terrain. The sky brooded overhead, a dull, slate grey, and the first fat, heavy snowflakes were finally swirling to the ground.

It was cold, and it seemed like such a long time since she'd last been completely warm, completely rested, completely content. Her fingers and toes were aching, her eyes kept drifting shut, and the gaping hole inside her was gnawing away at her soul. She shivered and wrapped her cloak tighter around her body and thought, not for the first time, that she had lost too much weight. She couldn't remember the last time she'd looked in a mirror, but she didn't need one. She knew what she'd see. A too-pale face tinged with grey; vacant, over-bright eyes; hair matted and tangled; gaunt cheeks. Once, the knowledge that she looked that way would have plagued her, no matter how she tried to deny it. Now, though, it really didn't seem to matter. When she looked at the figure—so very, very small, it seemed—silhouetted against the barren landscape and leaden sky, buffeted by angry winds, she was too weary, too cold, to even begin to care about such things.

"Do you really think he knows where he's going?"

She wasn't aware that she'd whispered the words aloud until a voice behind her asked another question in response.

"Does it really matter?"

He didn't startle her; she'd known he was there. He was always there. That awareness was the bedrock of her world, her absolute truth. He was always there. That was who he was.

That was why she loved him.

She didn't answer. She didn't need to. They both knew the answer. It was what they'd wrapped their souls around. It was who they were, as a unit, as individuals. They would follow him to the end, and it would never matter where. It never had.

She turned very slowly to look at him and, impossibly, there was comfort in that. His face was as haggard as hers, his shoulders as wearily stooped, but his eyes, tired as they were, were still the blue of a late autumn sky. Sometimes, when she forgot what a sunny day was like, she would just look at him, and she would remember, just a little bit.

But his hair—it was covered by a well-worn cap. She knew why. Lank as it was now, it would still stand out like a beacon in this world of greys and browns, and they could not afford that.

But right now, she didn't care. Right now, she needed it. Needed it to remind her of autumn leaves and summer fireworks and spring flowers and—most of all—winter fires. They couldn't light one here, for the same reasons he wore the cap. But she needed to be reminded, though she knew how ridiculous it was to think that a memory could warm her.

A few months ago, in that other life she barely remembered living, or even in the future she scarcely allowed herself to hope for, she would never do it. Pride and stubbornness and doubt and self-consciousness and embarrassment and awkwardness and fear—most of all fear—would get in the way.

But right now _was_ now, and she was too tired and too cold for any of that to matter, too tired and too cold to be afraid. So she simply did what she had wanted—needed—to do for so very long.

She sat down beside him, back against the sheltering rock, and very, very slowy, because her fingers were stiff with cold, she reached under his chin and untied the laces of his cap, removing it from his head. He watched her with steady, unreadable, beautiful, weary eyes, and he did not blush, did not jerk away as he would have in any other life. He was too tired, too.

So she tangled her fingers in his too-long hair, wrapping her hand in the memory of fire and warmth and life. And she laid her head on his shoulder and felt his arm slip around her and pull her close to him.

There were no pretenses now, no barriers, and not much that need to be said. These weeks of empty trudging with no directions, with wind and rain and cold, with long days and longer nights, with silences suffocating and comfortable, had done what nothing else could. She supposed she should be thankful. Maybe nothing else but leaving the life, color, and warmth they were fighting for behind could have taken gotten them to this place. It had always been there, buried under layers of so many now-insignificant things that she could no longer remember. They had always known, but never spoken, never acted. But now there was nothing else, nothing at all to cling to. Only this, and their mutual faith—faith was too pale a word—in the man—for he was a man now—who stood silent and alone against the sky.

She could not speak of the future, for that was uncertain, never guaranteed. Nor could she bring up the past, which seemed so unimportant now. All there was was now: her fingers in his hair, his arm around her shoulder, the figure on the ridge, and putting one foot in front of another tomorrow. She knew it. And he knew it.

And so he said, "One more."

Relief blew through her. She could look that far ahead, even if no further. "One more," she echoed. One more, and the there was nothing really more that the two of them could do. The rest was up to him. But even that was thinking too far. She dragged her thoughts back. "One more."

He hadn't told them what it was or where exactly they were going, and they hadn't asked. It didn't really matter.

"One more."

Suddenly, even that seemed too much. She wasn't sure she could go on, wasn't sure she could wake up tomorrow and walk on. The wind was so cold, the sky so low and grey, and she was so…tired.

"Hey," he said, and his fingers tiled her chin up. He had never done that before, but he did not fumble. He had always known how, she realized. His eyes were stern. "Hey. Don't think like that."

She closed her eyes; they were dry. He knew, and she had said nothing. "Sometimes," she whispered in a moment of weakness she would never have allowed herself in another life, "I just get so tired."

His eyes closed briefly. He was so different now. "I know." Or maybe not so different. Maybe just more of what he had always been, beneath all the shadows cast by the whole world, where only she had ever been able to see him. "I know."

His hand shifted to cup her face, bringing it close to his. They had never done this, but they both knew how. Their lips knew how to meet, to move, to caress. His hands knew how to hold her head and caress her bushy curls and grasp her waist. Her arms knew how to encircle his shoulders and play with his hair. They knew how to tell each other everything they felt but would never say—unless, until, they made it through this.

And they knew when to pull back and rest their foreheads against each other's and simply hold on for a very long time. They knew how to fit together while they slept, huddled against the rock. They knew how to dream the same dreams, of peace and warmth and rest and all the things they didn't have to say.

And when morning dawned grey and cold and he nudged them awake, they knew how to help each other stumble to their feet and struggle hand in hand behind him over rock and into the unknown.

And maybe it didn't really help that her hand was in his, that he'd held her last night, that they'd said everything that had ever needed saying when their lips met. She was still cold and tired and more than a little scared.

But maybe, just a little…

It did.

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This is my first piece of HP fiction to be shared with the world at large. I'd be thrilled to know what you think (no flames, please).


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